


Everything You Touch Turns to Gold

by Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog



Category: Aquaman (2018), DC Extended Universe
Genre: Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Underwater Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-24 08:39:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19720132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog/pseuds/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog
Summary: Orm dreams in bursts of colour, but his nightmares are just as bright. The light is golden, a burning radiant warmth that swallows him whole. He wakes up screaming, his brother’s name on his lips, and for the first time in his life he knows true shame.





	Everything You Touch Turns to Gold

**Author's Note:**

> For the Telephone Challenge over on the Fishcord. This challenge was so much fun!

Orm dreams in bursts of colour, in brilliant flashes of light that illuminate the darkness, chasing away the shadows until he is surrounded by a wash of luminescence. In his dreams, pillars of light twist into familiar shapes, and Orm sinks into the dazzling colours of Atlantis until they envelop him, and he knows of nothing else.

Orm dreams in bursts of colour, but his nightmares are just as bright. The light grows brighter, hotter, until it burns his eyes, his flesh, searing him down to his bones. He always imagined he would dream of darkness, of teeth and claws dragging him into the depths. Of how his mother- But no, in the nightmares the darkness is his solace, protecting him from the burning light above that drags him away from all that he knows. The light is golden, a burning radiant warmth that swallows him whole. He wakes up screaming, his brother’s name on his lips, and for the first time in his life he knows true shame.

It is years later, long after his mother dies, that he begins to hear the whispers. Stories float in on the currents with the merchants, tales of a mysterious man who swims the oceans alone, destroying surface dweller machines in the oceans as readily as he saves the humans from watery graves. They whisper, wonder who it could be, but never utter the name Orm knows is in their hearts. In his heart. He sneers at the stories, at the empty actions of a traitor and an outsider, and greedily hoards each word that passes from their lips.

At night, he sinks into his dreams, a cloud of colour, of darkness and light that swirl together until he no longer knows himself. He dreams of teeth and claws, and wonders if his brother is searching the seas for him, to rend him through with their mother’s trident as Orm longs to do with his father’s.

Orvax dies, and the crown passes to Orm, his people’s cheers echoing in his ears as the Highborns kneel and pledge themselves to him. Later, when he’s alone in his room, he tugs the crown from his head, hurls it across the room, watches it sink to the floor. He can hear his brother’s mocking voice, even though he cannot possibly know the sound of it, hissing in his ear. _Pick it up, little brother,_ his brother snarls, _pick up my crown for me_. Orm sinks to the ground, but he doesn’t touch it, can’t bear to look at the glittering gems that catch the flickering lights of the city beyond. _Pick up the crown for your king_ , the voice croons, and Orm does as he’s told. He drifts to sleep curled around the crown, lips brushing the cool metal. His dreams are filled with nothing but brilliant golden light, clawing hands that press into his skin like brands until he is marked down to his bones.

There are days when the press of long buried hunger gets too much, crawling under his skin like a living thing, and he quietly slips from the palace until he arrives at the Council of Kings. Here, the water dances over worn stones, clear and bright from the surface light in a way Atlantis never could. His mother used to bring him here, curl around him and whisper stories, and Orm thought nothing could ever be quite so beautiful as his mother, glittering and resplendent in the sun-bright waters. Here, so far from home in the grotto of his childhood, echoes of his mother swirling around him, Orm allows himself to wonder what his brother looks like.

Golden hair, perhaps, just like his own, like Mother’s. Golden hair as bright and warm as sunlight. Orm shudders, clawing at his skin until red colours the water and a different warmth fills him.

“His majesty, King Ricou, will see you at the seventh bell,” the attendant reports, spreading her webbed hands respectfully.

Orm nods distractedly, not taking his eyes off of the world map that shimmers in strands of silver. The point glows on the map, a tiny beacon that throbs in time with Orm’s heartbeat. He doesn’t turn as Nereus floats up behind him, eyes focused on the single point of light, of his brother’s location.

“You would not lie to me, would you, Orm?” he says, a hint of steel threading through his low voice.

“You have stated your terms, King Nereus,” Orm says, as deferential as if they were still equals in all of this. “And you forget, Mera is as dear to me as a sister. Even though she has betrayed her people, betrayed me, I would not ask for her death even if the law requires it. I am glad you stayed my hand so that she might return to us.”

“And what of your brother?” Nereus asks.

Orm does not twitch, smooths his face like his mother had taught him years ago and shrugs with a small smile. “My brother escaped the Ring of Fire, a sacred duel. His fate has already been decided by our own laws. And who is he really, but a stranger? He is not truly one of us.”

Nereus reaches out, waving a hand through the map and sending the display scattering in flecks of lights. Orm grips the table, tries to swallow the anger that suddenly spears through him as the display winks out.

“Is he not still your blood?” Nereus’ voice is sly, and Orm cannot look at him, knows the anger will surely show on his face. He hates how like Mera he is, the garb of a warrior hiding the shrewd politician lurking underneath. _Xebelians_ , he thinks with a sneer, _duplicity is in their nature_.

Orm turns, and knows his smile is a little too sharp, a little too cold. “Can tainted blood still have any worth?” he says lightly, pleased when Nereus nods in approval.

From the viewing deck, Vulko stiffens slightly.

Beneath his skin, that burning ache crawls like spines in his veins, splitting him open with each beat of his heart. Violence buzzes in his skull, the quick temper he inherited from his father pressing him to move, wrap his hands around Vulko’s traitorous throat until all those clever lies die in his mouth.

“There is something I must attend to,” Orm manages to announce far more calmly than he should, hating how something knowing flashes over Nereus face. “I’ll return before the seventh bell.”

Vulko inclines his head, murmurs “My king” as he swims out, and Orm is glad he has left his trident in his chambers. He is not his father, he’s _not_.

In the darkness of the ocean depths, the Fisherman Kingdom is a beacon of light, smooth white shell and twisting coral that glows with such splendour, a true jewel amongst the kingdoms. Orm retreats to his chambers, but the glowing city seeps into the walls, the floor, an inescapable light. He hates the silver of the city.

His war armour is silver too, a cloudy grey that shimmered like scales. His mother had beamed when he had selected his helm, shown it to her proudly. A silver to match her iridescent seafoam scales. Silver, like her hair. He tears the armour from his body, rips the undersuit with shaking fingers until he is free, nothing against his skin but his own hands. He presses them against his arms, his chest, maps his own body with trembling strokes until he calms and the burning rage fades to something quieter.

Drifting over to the wall, he reaches out, fingers hovering over his father’s trident. He bites his lips until pain blossoms and the anger once more abates, focuses on the sting until his thundering heart quiets. He swallows, clenching his fists, swallows back the sharp salt tang of his own blood that sours his tongue.

Gold flashes in the stark silver of the room. Orm taps a finger against the ruby-red of the jewel inset into the crown, traces the delicate crest, and wonders what it would looks like on his brother’s head. Gold, to match his eyes. Gold, like the sun. Like the trailing ends of his long hair. As though sunlight had been threaded through his very being. If he had touched, if Orm had reached out as he was now, with no barriers between him, between them, would his brother’s flesh by just as warm, burning like sunlight made flesh?

Across the city a bell tolls, four peals that echo through the water. Orm gathers the crown to him, presses it against his flesh above his heart, tells himself it will be over soon, and Murk will return to him with the bloodied proof of his brother’s death.

Orm dreams in bursts of colour, of caerulean blues and crimsons and emerald greens. He dreams of silver and darkness. He dreams of inescapable gold. From the shadows, gold eyes burn, twin suns beneath the waves. They are too bright to look at, too warm, too kind. His brother needs no crown, not when the mark of a king is in his very flesh itself. He already has a king’s gold in his eyes.

His brother reaches for him, cradles his face in his sun-warm hands, sears the surface world into his flesh. Orm cannot move, all but helpless in his brother’s grasp.

“Brother,” Orm says, desperate, but the hands tug him closer, an undeniable pull that he cannot escape.

His brother’s eyes slide shut, nose brushing against his own.

“Arthur,” Orm begs, mouth open in a soundless scream as soft lips press against his own.

Arthur tilts his head, mouth sliding against his own as a rush of air fills him, searing through him and erasing all the shadows in burning light. Orm sobs into his brother’s embrace, helpless as the water disappears from his lungs until only air remains.

“Stop!” He tries to scream as Arthur pulls away with a smile, but the words cannot come out, only bubbles escaping his lips.

“You know I can’t stop. I told you, little brother. I told you. You will have to kill me if you want to stop me.” Arthur laughs, and it fills Orm’s head like peals of a bell, dragging him towards the light.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Orm screams, sobs as Arthur’s mouth presses against his again, air pouring into his lungs. He clutches at Arthur’s hair; brown strands curling around his fingers as he sinks down and lets the golden light consume him.

Orm shudders awake, the peals of the bells filling the chamber. The golden crown is warm against his skin.

He places it carefully on the table and reaches without a thought for his father’s trident. The metal is cold in his hands. Orm picks up the scattered pieces of armour, shrouds himself in silver and wills the lingering heat to fade from his skin.

When he swims into the palace, Nereus inclines his head in greeting, eyes sharp and cold. Orm presses his father’s trident to his back, steels himself for the violence to come. Orm nods back to Nereus. It was time to tell the good news to the fisherman king: The war must come to the surface, no matter the cost.

In the iridescent cream and silver of the throne room, Orm lets himself forget the warmth of golden light. Here, he is silver and steel.


End file.
